


Purely Physical

by DictionaryWrites



Series: i'm emo over gabriel nbd [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale's Trial (Good Omens), Complicated Relationships, Crowley As Raphael (Good Omens), Desperation, Emotionally Repressed, Identity Issues, Intimacy, Love Confessions, M/M, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 16:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: “You’ll stay?” Crowley asked, his voice slightly hoarse.Aziraphale smiled. “Of course.”His gaze flitted away from Crowley for a moment, and then, his gaze on his own neatly manicured fingernails, he murmured, “I— You know, you…” He trailed off.“Angel,” Crowley said, “I lov—”“No,” Aziraphale said, too gently for it to be truly sharp. “No. Please, don’t.”





	Purely Physical

 

Crowley was a demon.

He had been a demon for a little over six thousand years, and before that, before the Fall, he had been an angel. And not just any angel, either, but one of the big names, one of the top brass, and the worst part was that he _remembered_ it. He remembered it all, remembered Heaven, remembered hanging the stars, remembered the other angels, remembered God—

None of the other Fallen did, or if they did, they lied about it.

(And why shouldn’t they? Crowley did.)

Crowley, as a demon, as a Fallen angel, knew what pain was. Better, he knew what _agony_ was. He knew what torture was.

And this was all three.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley had almost fallen asleep on the bus ride home, and when he had said he needed a lie-down, to his surprise, Aziraphale had padded after him, setting his loafers neatly by the front door, beside Crowley’s sleek, attractive shoe cabinet. His suit had given way to a pair of soft, well-worn pyjamas, made of some sort of fleecy, tartan pattern[1], and he was lying on his side beside Crowley in the bed, a foot of space between them as he sunk into the luxurious memory foam. Crowley could see his bare feet, could see the plump column of his throat, could see his hands – so much _skin_ on show, and yet barely anything, compared to how it used to be, years and years ago… Skin Crowley wanted to reach out and brush with his fingers.

“I’m sure,” Crowley said, aware of how stiff his body was, this close to Aziraphale. He was in his _own_ pyjamas, and he’d not thought to close the door when he’d changed, had felt Aziraphale’s gaze on his back, taking in his naked skin as he’d thrown off his clothes and put on black silk PJs instead[2]. “I can do it… Can you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, with certainty. “Yes, I think so.”

Crowley was aching. He’d never ached so much, never _yearned_ so much as he did in this moment, and he’d been doing both for six thousand years.

Aziraphale has never been so _close_ , so tantalisingly _close_ , and in his bed, in his bed—

Crowley wished his thoughts, in this moment, were lascivious and salacious. He wished they were something so paltry as lustful, that he was thinking of fucking the angel into his mattress, or pinning him up against the frame, but he was never a good demon, and those thoughts were barely ideas at the edge of his imagination. No, Crowley’s traitorous thoughts were full of something much more tempting: the idea of putting his hands on Aziraphale’s skin, of pushing their bodies flush against one another, of Aziraphale _holding_ him, or better yet, coiling around Aziraphale and keeping him safe and tied up with Crowley, all his, where no one else could even _think_ of touching him.

“You should sleep,” Aziraphale said softly, and his eyes were full of warmth that Crowley wanted to bask in, just like he’d basked in the rays of sun, all those years ago, in Eden. “It’s late, Crowley, nearly ten o’clock. We’ll have to leave early.”

“You’ll stay?” Crowley asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course.”

His gaze flitted away from Crowley for a moment, and then, his gaze on his own neatly manicured fingernails, he murmured, “I— You know, you…” He trailed off.

“Angel,” Crowley said, “I lov—”

“No,” Aziraphale said, too gently for it to be truly sharp. “No. Please, don’t.”

“I go too fast for you,” Crowley said. It sounded bitter: it tasted bitter, too, although he felt guilty for it, felt _bad_ for feeling bitter, for how much he wanted. He shouldn’t feel bad for wanting. He should want, and he should _take_ , he was a _demon_ … But you couldn’t take _love_. “The end of the world, angel, and that’s not fast enough for you?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. “Truly, I am. Sleep, Crowley. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I have feelings too, you know,” Crowley said, stuntedly, awkwardly, the words rushing too fast to get out of his mouth, before he could hold the back. Aziraphale stared at him, his brow furrowing, his head shifting on Crowley’s silk pillows, making his sheets shift and catch the dim shine from the streetlamp outside in a different way.

“I know,” he said reproachfully.

“Don’t think you do, actually,” Crowley muttered, and he turned over on his other side, facing the wall instead of the angel in his bed, and he closed his eyes.

\--

Aziraphale’s body was easier to pilot than he expected. There was an irony in it, Crowley supposed, that he couldn’t touch the angel, couldn’t kiss him, couldn’t tell him that he loved him, but he was allowed this: he was allowed to be in his _body_ , in his _skin_.

Aziraphale had the saunter perfected, and Crowley was just as good at Aziraphale’s own walk, his prissy, frumpy little steps, elbows in tight, hands in front of his belly, like he was worried about anyone accusing him of taking up space.

“So,” Aziraphale said, drawling the way that Crowley did, and Crowley felt his lips – Aziraphale’s lips – quirk into a small smile. “We go about our business as usual?”

“Precisely,” Crowley replied, with a little nod of his head. He watched his own mouth shift into a little grin, before his own hand covered it. “Ah-ah. I think you’ll find that Crowley smiles _quite_ freely.”

“How lovely for him,” Aziraphale murmured. It was funny, hearing Aziraphale’s voice come out of his own mouth. He wanted to touch his own lips with Aziraphale’s hands, wanted to know if it _felt_ the same…

“Mm,” Crowley hummed, and took a step back. “Meet up in St James’ at one?”

“At one,” Aziraphale agreed.

“And if it— If it all goes wrong,” Crowley said softly, “I just wanted to tell you—”

“ _Crowley_ —”

“I love you, angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale _winced_ , recoiled, and Crowley swallowed the way it hurt, the way it cut him like a knife.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, slightly crisply, and walked ahead of him to the door.

\--

Oh, Heaven, it never changed.

The tape over the mouth – hypoallergenic stuff, and not very sticky at all, so that it came off easy without even leaving a mark; the ropes, bless it, but the ropes felt _soft_. Of course this was how they went about taking a hostage, and Crowley would have laughed, if he wasn’t meant to be looking absolutely terrified, which he gave a go at.

He hadn’t been up in the offices for—

Oh, a long time.

A _long_ time.

They were worse than they had been, Crowley thought: the ceilings, the walls, the columns, all so starkly bright, not even with any pictures on the walls, and no desks… Had it always been like that, up here? Surely, it hadn’t? He was sure of it: they’d had their offices, the five of them, four with the corner offices on the second to top floor, and Lucifer, Lucifer in the middle—

He almost expected Gabriel to beam at him, to beam at him and say, “Raphael!”

He didn’t.

Heaven thought Raphael was gone… and he was.

“Gimme a second with him,” Gabriel said to the angels holding him, and they walked obediently off as Gabriel leaned in. To Crowley’s surprise, he was actually gentle in removing the tape from over his mouth – it wouldn’t have hurt much even if he _had_ tried to tear it off, but he was tender in it. Some things did change, Crowley supposed: he’d always known Gabriel as lumbering, not realising his own strength, and here he was, _gentle_.

He felt the thrum of power on his every side, blurring the little circle he and Gabriel were in together, the archangel in front of the chair Crowley was strapped in, and Crowley felt a little bit of panic. Shit. _Shit_. He’d been made? Gabriel _knew_? How?

Gabriel swallowed. He turned his head one way, and then the other, and Crowley stared up at him, not saying anything, waiting, waiting…

“How—” Gabriel heaved in a gasp, and Crowley stared up at him. “How long?”

“How long?” Crowley repeated.

“You and the demon,” Gabriel said. “Crowley. How long?”

Shit. _Shit_. _Shit_. “I don’t know what you mean,” Crowley simpered, and Gabriel let out a sharp growl of noise, making Crowley flinch in Aziraphale’s body as he brought his fist up, but it didn’t make contact – that was always more Uriel’s deal than Gabriel’s.

“No, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t— Sorry,” Gabriel said hurriedly, and his fingers, still gentle, brushed Crowley’s cheek. No. No. No, no, no, that couldn’t be… _No_. “But why did you— Why didn’t you…?” Gabriel was crouching in front of him, and Crowley stared at him, at those brightly violet eyes that were almost wet with tears. “The whole time? You and him, that demon? The whole time, you were with him?”

This was—

No.

No, Crowley didn’t know what to make of this, didn’t know what to make of Gabriel leaning forward with his hands grasping so desperately at Crowley’s borrowed knees, on the verge of sobbing; he didn’t know what to make of Gabriel begging, with such betrayal in his tone, to know when Aziraphale and Crowley had taken up together. Or, he did know.

He _did_ know.

How the _fuck_ was he supposed to answer this one?

“Since the Beginning,” he said, and Gabriel’s hands tightened into fists.

“So,” Gabriel said, his voice trembling, “so why did you— When I came, in the… A hundred-and-fifty _years_ , Aziraphale, why didn’t you just— in the first place, why did you…?”

Crowley couldn’t breathe. His heart was pounding hard, and he couldn’t make it stop, wanted to tear himself out of this ill-fitting body and scramble home to his bed, wanted to scream, wanted to _scream_ — A hundred-and-fifty years? A hundred-and- _fifty_ …?

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh, fuck, _no._ The holy water. The holy water, and Aziraphale, and Crowley—

The dots connected without Crowley wanting them to, and he felt like being sick, felt like sobbing, felt like dying. He concentrated on perfecting Aziraphale’s voice, simpering, prissy, quiet, as he said, “We were— Crowley, and I, er, well, we were… We were broken up, at the time. I imagine I was quite upset about it.”

Crowley had seen that look on Gabriel’s face before, or one like it. It was an expression of loss, of desperate, _desperate_ loss, and that was how he had looked when Lucifer had Fallen. Was that how he had looked when Crowley had fallen, too? Was that how…?

“That—” Gabriel said, and Crowley saw that he was trembling. _Trembling_ , big, handsome Gabriel, and he was _trembling_. “That hurts, Aziraphale.”

The inflection was already there, in Crowley’s memory, already perfectly formulated, to sting, and yet to be _perfectly_ correct, just— It was just the same. It was just the same, and it hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_ …

“So sorry to hear it,” Crowley said, and Gabriel pulled away.

\--

He waited until after dinner. They needed to celebrate, and that wasn’t just about Aziraphale – _Crowley_ needed to celebrate, too, needed to _drink_ , needed to relax and listen to the music. And Aziraphale had chosen him, hadn’t he? He’d chosen Crowley, he’d chosen Earth, and no, no, he _couldn’t_ say he loved Crowley back, but that wasn’t because he didn’t love him, it was because he was an angel, because he was scared of Falling, and because Crowley was a demon.

They got into the car, and Crowley said, not yet turning the key in the ignition, “Um. Gabriel… Gabriel said something. Before the trial.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s body language, which was so still and unrevealing as to reveal absolutely everything. His face didn’t change: his body was so still it could have been a statue. “Oh?” he asked.

 _You coward_ , Crowley almost said. _You **coward**._

But he didn’t mean that, did he? He wished he did. He wished he meant it. He wished he thought Aziraphale was a coward, and selfish, and thoughtless sometimes, and— He wished he thought them enough to _care_. He wished he thought the enough not to love him. He wished, sometimes, that he didn’t love him.

It was so hard.

He just wished it could be easier.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said.

“It’s not what you— it’s not what you _think_ ,” Aziraphale muttered, and he puts his arms over his chest, squeezing them in to himself. “It was—” He swallowed, and Crowley stared at him, took him in. A hundred-and-fifty years. Of _Gabriel_. “Purely physical.”

“Physical?” Crowley repeated.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, you mustn’t be angry with me, Crowley—”

“Mustn’t I?”

“It was— It was just… Mindless, you know, it was just— It was just _bodies_. It had nothing to do with—” The words seemed to freeze on Aziraphale’s tongue, and he faltered before he said, “You and I, there is a… a higher c-cause, a connection. Crowley, I l— I care most deeply for you. I don’t know that I could be… without you.”

How long had Crowley waited to hear those words? How long, how long, how long? How long had he wanted, and yearned, and ached, and _agonised_?

And they came now, on the wake of Gabriel on his knees, begging who he thought was Aziraphale for explanation.

Aziraphale still couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t think that’s how it was for him,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked at him. “He— Aziraphale, he was _heartbroken_. He had no idea that that was…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale muttered, although his voice faltered. “Gabriel hasn’t a _heart_.”

“Well, no, angel,” Crowley snapped, “because you fucking _ate_ it.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, leaning back in his seat, and Crowley turned the key in the ignition, reaching for the gearstick and bringing the car neatly out of the space they’d been parked in[3].

“It was purely physical,” Aziraphale repeated. “It was— It was _cathartic_ , that’s all, there was nothing wrong with—”

“Did _he_ know it was purely physical?”

“Oh, don’t be _stupid_ , Crowley, of course he knew—”

“Gabriel doesn’t know about human stuff, Aziraphale, and you _know_ that. You ever tell him that sex and love weren’t the same thing? You ever ask what _he_ wanted? Or did you just roll on your back and give him your big eyes, and just slap his hand away if he looked like he was going too much with what _he_ wanted than what you did?”

Crowley had never seen Aziraphale’s face so pale, or his knuckles so white. Aziraphale’s eyes were wet, and Crowley wondered why it came so easily to him, spitting all that out, and he felt like screaming, felt like sobbing, felt like throwing himself into the ocean and just swimming down until he didn’t even see _light_ anymore.

“I didn’t know,” Aziraphale said, voice trembling, “that you cared so much for Gabriel.”

“Oh, that’s very mature,” Crowley said. “Make it about my feelings instead of _what you did_.”

“Well, I hardly see how it matters now,” Aziraphale muttered. “I chose to— We stood in the way of the apocalypse, and he tried to _kill me_ , just like Hell tried to kill you, so why— Why does it matter? All that business with Gabriel, it’s… it’s over. Finished. And I only ever wanted him in the _first place_ because I wanted—"

Crowley looked at Aziraphale desperately, and Aziraphale let out an exhalation that was more like a sob than anything else.

“What’s so wrong with him?” Crowley asked quietly.

“With whom? Gabriel?”

“Mm.”

“He’s—” Aziraphale sighed, and he looked out over the traffic as Crowley brought the car to a stop outside the bookshop. “He’s… overbearing, and _stupid_ , he used to be… He used to be so enthusiastic about my magic, but he was so enthusiastic that he ruined it, it was— It was embarrassing. He’s embarrassing. And he asks… He asks so many _questions_ , he—”

Crowley’s blood felt cold as ice. “Questions?” he repeated. “He asks— He asks too many questions?”

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” Aziraphale muttered, each syllable a new cut. “He— He’s not _you_ , in short. I suppose that… that isn’t a sin, but that’s— That’s his main failing.”

Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Then why did you— Why did you have…? I didn’t even know that you wanted sex. I didn’t know that you— you cared about it.”

“I wanted to stop thinking,” Aziraphale said woodenly. “It— It rather works as the natural antithesis of such things.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “What I wouldn’t give to stop thinking.” He wasn’t thinking, as he said it, and as soon as he realized, he stiffened, and looked at Aziraphale’s bright red cheeks, and said, “I didn’t mean— I didn’t mean _that_ , I didn’t—”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley got out of the door on the other side, moving to open Aziraphale’s for him. Aziraphale stepped neatly from within the Bentley, and Crowley pushed the door closed.

The gap between them, although it was only a foot, like it had been in the bed the night before, felt insurmountable. Crowley had never been more aware of how little he and Aziraphale touched one another, how he was frightened to even put his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his arm, when Gabriel had been touching him all over for over a century. _Purely physical_ …

And what were he and Aziraphale?

Not purely emotional, because they couldn’t _talk_ about it, because Aziraphale wouldn’t let Crowley get close enough, so what were they?

Purely fantasy?

Crowley lunged, pinning Aziraphale back against the car, and Aziraphale yelped out a noise of surprise, his shoulders hitting the side of the Bentley’s door, Crowley’s hands either side of his hips, their chests together, their noses almost touching. He could feel the heat of Aziraphale’s body under his own, feel his heart speeding in his chest, feel his _blood_ pumping in his veins—

He watched Aziraphale’s nostrils flare, watched the marginal dilation of his pupils, the parting of his lips.

“You could—” Aziraphale said falteringly, and his voice was so full of liquid want that Crowley felt his skin hot and tight all over, felt like he might vibrate right out of it. “You could come in. For— for a nightcap.”

“Something purely physical?” he asked.

Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m not— I’m not read— I can’t, Crowley, I—”

Crowley slid away from Aziraphale, and he walked back around to his side. “See you, angel. Dinner Friday, maybe.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale whispered, and he stepped toward the shop door.

Crowley didn’t let himself linger.

 

 

[1] It was the same tartan, actually, that had been on the flask of holy water Aziraphale had given him fifty years or so ago. The same flask that was still neatly kept in the back of a cupboard, out of sight of prying eyes, but where Crowley could look at it whenever he wanted, which was somewhat often.

[2] Crowley usually slept shirtless, but tonight, that was _most certainly_ not possible.

[3] As they drove away, the double yellow lines meekly returned to where they’d been before Crowley had pulled up.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that [the Tadfield Advertiser](https://tadfield-advertiser.dreamwidth.org/517.html) and the [Good Omens Prompt Meme](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/9084.html) are both up and running, and people should definitely go leave prompts and fills on both!!


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